


Long Way Home

by jekisawrites



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Modern AU, and then strangers to friends to lovers again, small town, that southern vibe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jekisawrites/pseuds/jekisawrites
Summary: But Eden was magical in the way all small southern towns are – the simplest kind of magic to ever exist. The magic was in the wide, ancient oaks that held more history than any textbook, the riverbeds where you could uncover arrow heads and clay pottery, and the way you could go out into the trees, greet the bushes with a soft hello, and enjoy the berries they offer you. The magic was weaved into the heart of the town in how every person would stop and wave to someone they’re passing, how after a disaster all the people would come together to rebuild their home, and how after a tragedy the mourners would never run out of casseroles, desserts, and tea so sweet your teeth would ache. There was magic in the way they spoke in a slow, unrushed drawl, running words together like a painting the rest of the world would never imagine. It was magic in the way little boys and girls could run around barefoot with bruises on their knees, cuts on their palms, and without a single worry in the world.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: up until one second ago, this fic was still titled "Barefoot Gremlin"

_ Eden was filled with magic that surrounds all small towns in the deep south. Some would say that it was a curse rather than the beauty that it actually is. Others, the ones who know better, know that everything has a little evil in it, the consequence of a broken world.  _

_ But Eden was magical in the way all small southern towns are – the simplest kind of magic to ever exist. The magic was in the wide, ancient oaks that held more history than any textbook, the riverbeds where you could uncover arrow heads and clay pottery, and the way you could go out into the trees, greet the bushes with a soft hello, and enjoy the berries they offer you. The magic was weaved into the heart of the town in how every person would stop and wave to someone they’re passing, how after a disaster all the people would come together to rebuild their home, and how after a tragedy the mourners would never run out of casseroles, desserts, and tea so sweet your teeth would ache. There was magic in the way they spoke in a slow, unrushed drawl, running words together like a painting the rest of the world would never imagine. It was magic in the way little boys and girls could run around barefoot with bruises on their knees, cuts on their palms, and without a single worry in the world. _

“Clarke, slow down!” 

Bellamy and Clarke met when he was five and making mudpies, and four year old Clarke walked up to him and told him he was making them incorrectly. He had told her they were  _ mudpies;  _ there wasn’t a wrong way to do them. She had very seriously told him that everything had a wrong and right way, and he was most definitely doing it the wrong way. Somehow they had become friends, and ever since then Bellamy has been chasing after Clarke. 

At ten and eleven, not much had changed. Bellamy was still chasing after her in the middle of a cornfield, asking for her to  _ please  _ slow down. He saw the slight limp, and knew that she had stepped on a twig or sticker or, worse, an old rusty nail. It wouldn’t be the first time Clarke had injured herself running barefoot in the fields around their two houses, and Bellamy doubted it would be far from the last. Still. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t more serious than she thought it was. 

Clarke kept running, the corn leaves brushing against her skin and leaving the smallest of scratches. 

It was Autumn, and you could tell by how full the cornfields were, by the cool breeze fighting off the year round humidity, and by the way Clarke’s heart ran wild. Autumn, it seemed, was her favorite season. 

Bellamy knew where she was going, and he also knew the shortcut. He cut through the corn and kept running until he saw the abandoned tractor. He turned then, and soon he was bursting out of the field. He had caught his breath and was sitting on the fallen log when Clarke finally arrives. 

She huffs when she sees him, “I don’t know how you always beat me here.” 

He smirks, “Just let me see your foot.” 

“It doesn’t even hurt.” 

“You’re a shit liar. I saw you limping.” 

“Shut up.” 

_ Eden is magic in the way time passes without anyone noticing.  _

They’re fourteen and fifteen now. Bellamy has an old beat up truck that he spends more time working on than it’s worth. Clarke has cheeks burned red and shoes that she never wears. She’s sitting in the middle of their kitchen – barefoot, skinny and pale knees sticking out, and jean shorts that have seen better days. She walked the long way to his house. Instead of walking through the woods and the field that separate their houses, she followed the road, walking barefoot on the hot asphalt. He can see the blisters already forming on the soles of her feet. 

Bellamy’s favorite part about Clarke is how she makes herself at home whenever he’s around. Today was no different. She walked down the gravel driveway, not bothering to flinch as the stones bruised her feet. She jumped on the old tire swing when she saw him working on the truck, and when she got bored of that, she went inside and dug out his mom’s old record player. It wasn’t long after that Bellamy heard Elvis coming from the kitchen windows. 

He damps a cloth before joining her on the cold tiled floor, and hands her the cloth. “For your feet.” 

She rolls her eyes, but cleans them anyway. She flinches as she presses the cloth against the blisters on each foot, but doesn’t complain. It’s a summer tradition to her at this point. 

They listen to three songs in silence before Clarke turns to him, knees brushing against each other and faces so close Bellamy can see the light summer freckles on her nose. 

“Let’s go.” 

And she’s standing up, pulling him with her, before he can ask where. She’s running out the door ahead of him, bare feet pounding against the soft grass and him following her in his work boots. They run until they cross his family’s property line and enter Old Man Pike’s. He acts like he hates kids, but Bellamy and Clarke know that he has a soft spot for them. 

Clarke pulls him through Pike’s pecan trees, either somehow missing the pecan shells or not caring that they’re cutting her feet. She never lets go of his hand, tugging him along and making sure he’s right there beside her. As if he’d be anywhere else. 

When they get to her destination – a field of oak trees with branches hanging low – she spins around and pulls him even closer. 

“This is my favorite place,” She whispers. 

He can feel how soft his smile is for her when he whispers back, “Why are we whispering?” 

“So we don’t disturb them.” 

Clarke lets go of his hand only to start climbing. 

_ Eden is magic in the way they can blink, and suddenly they’re older.  _

A sixteen year old Clarke runs through his house without caring whether or not he’s home. She greets his mom and sister as if they are her own, and runs down the hall to Bellamy’s room. He’s on the floor under the window applying for colleges. She’s on his bed, feet in the air, and a comic in her hands. 

It doesn’t take long for him to get frustrated, shutting his laptop, and crawling to the bed. He pulls on a strand of her hair, “Let’s go on an adventure.” 

She doesn’t have to be told twice, and runs to his truck. He follows her, grabbing a pair of his sister’s sandals because he knows Clarke didn’t bring hers. 

He drives two hours to the coast, and they spend too much money thrift shopping and eat too much fried food. They sit in the sand with their custards, and when Clarke starts playing music from her phone, Bellamy pulls her up to dance. 

They dance and laugh and chase waves until the sun casts shadows over them. With a wild freedom, they climb back into his truck and take the long way home. 

_ Eden is magic in the way the nights feel full of possibilities.  _

Bellamy tells Clarke he loves her when they’re in the bed of their friend’s truck headed to a bonfire. He’s eighteen and about to start classes at the community college. She’s seventeen and has an endless amount of options. 

With the night air clinging to his skin, Bellamy let’s himself believe Clarke could be a possibility for him, an option she willingly chooses. She kisses him, and the love they both feel threatens to burn their hearts. 

Their time together is as fleeting as the lightning bugs at dusk. Their love begins with a fire in their chest, and it ends with ashes of who they once were scattering around them. 

It ends with Clarke wanting to go to a university ten hours away and with Bellamy wanting what he can’t have. It ends with tears, words meant to puncture, and apologies stuck in their throats. 

It ends with Bellamy watching Clarke run home, her feet as dark as the asphalt. 

_ Eden is magic in the way it brings people together. _

At twenty-five, Clarke’s soul hasn’t changed. Her hair is shorter, her heart heavier, and perspective a little darker, but the freedom and wildness that lives in her never left. At twenty-five, she moves back to Eden with little to her name, but the trees and moss covered rocks welcome her. 

Her mom calls after her to put on shoes as she steps out onto their front porch and breathes in the scent of home. She grabs her hammock from her car, and starts off for the river and stuffs her pockets full of pecans on the way.

When Clarke gets to the river, she sets up her hammock between two pine trees. She makes herself comfortable and takes a moment to enjoy the sun tingling her skin before starting to crack open her pecans. In the corner of her eye, she spots the rope swing, and the memories of summers spent here with Bellamy come rushing towards her like a tide she can’t control. She lets herself bask in those memories with eyes closed and the smell of pecans surrounding her. 

Clarke falls asleep and stays later than she planned. The sun is already low in the sky when she wakes up. She quickly packs her hammock back in its bag, and heads home unconsciously deciding to cut through Bellamy’s family’s property to get home quicker. 

She ends up stepping on a rusty nail, and she’s lucky enough it doesn’t go straight through but unlucky enough for it to send pain shooting through her leg and leave blood on the path. She finds a fallen tree to sit on and inspects her foot. She pulls the nail out and winces when blood pours out. 

Familiar footsteps come towards her, and when she looks up an older version of the boy she fell in love with stands in front of her. 

His hands are in his pockets, and there’s a smirk hidden behind his frown, “It was bound to happen eventually.” 

Despite the pain throbbing in her foot, she smiles. “It doesn’t even hurt.” 

He laughs and shakes his head, and her heart reaches for something that is no longer hers. 

“You’re a shit liar, Clarke.” He sits beside her on the fallen tree, “Lemme see it.” 

_ Eden is magic in the way it allows old wounds to heal. _

Bellamy has his own house now, just down the street from the Griffin’s and his mom’s. He worked hard on making it his own, patching walls, and staining floors. He’s proud of it, and the first time Clarke sees it, she can see his pride radiating off of him. 

He cooks while Clarke sets the table and pesters him with questions about his life since she left. For every question he answers, she gives him an answer of her own, and slowly they relearn each other. 

Weeks later, they’re both sitting outside by the fire in the chairs he built two summers ago when she looks at him. He can see the secret in her eyes. 

“What?” 

“You were the best part of my childhood.” 

He smiles, his soul yearning for what once was, “You were mine, too.” 

They’re painting his kitchen together – Clarke barefoot with cutoff shorts and his old high school t-shirt and him with socked feet, tattered jeans, and a white shirt she’s splattered with paint – and Bellamy thinks the new them is just as good as the old. 

He takes them out on his canoe, and they enjoy the autumn breeze on the water. Clarke’s summer freckles can still be seen dusted across her nose, and she’s the most carefree she’s been since coming home. 

“Do you ever think about our fight?” 

He huffs, “Try not to.” 

The look she gives him is wistful, “I wish it hadn’t happened.” 

Bellamy stops rowing and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, “The things we said, even if they should’ve been said with more kindness, needed to be said, Clarke.” 

“Bellamy, I…” Clarke’s voice cracks, the words she needs to say are stubborn and refusing to come out, “I never meant to hurt you.” 

The soft smile, the one he reserved just for her was back, “I know.” 

She reaches out, and he lets her run her fingers over his calloused hands. 

He intertwines their fingers, “I never stopped loving you.” 

A smile breaks out across her face, “I know.” 

He laughs, something soft and deep, and before he kisses her he says, “You’re a shit liar, Clarke.” 

**Author's Note:**

> quarantine has me feeling some kind of way about my southern roots. 
> 
> come hang with me on [ tumblr](https://thefangirlingbarista.tumblr.com/)


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